The Night Market – Part 1: Ten Stalls In

The Shilin night market was a river of people, neon and steam. Mei pushed through the crowds with a notebook in one hand and a camera around her neck, scribbling notes about oyster omelettes and bubble tea, and reached the middle of a row of food stalls before she realised her wallet was gone.

She stopped dead. A man bumped into her from behind and apologised in rapid Mandarin. She turned around, frantic, patting her pockets.

"Lost something?" said a voice in English.

She spun round. A young man was standing beside a stall selling fried chicken, a paper bag in one hand and a grin on his face. He had messy black hair, a faded denim jacket and the kind of open, mischievous expression that made her suspect he had already decided she was funny.

"My wallet," said Mei. "It was right here."

"A woman with a very expensive camera and a face like a lost deer," said the man, nodding solemnly. "I saw her. She ran that way, with a man in a red shirt."

Mei groaned. "You're lying."

"I'm not," said the man. "I'm helping. My name is Kai. I'm a terrible liar, which is why I'm an excellent tour guide."

"You're a tour guide?"

"Freelance," said Kai. "Mostly for lost tourists and people who need to eat more dumplings. Come. We'll find your wallet, and then you'll try the best fried chicken in Taipei."

They didn't find the wallet. But they found the stall that sold the best fried chicken in Taipei, a tiny window in an alley where an old woman in a white apron slapped a handful of seasoning onto the crispy skin with the speed of a magician.

"It's spicy," said Kai, watching her with delight. "You'll cry."

"I'm a food writer," said Mei. "I don't cry at chicken."

She took one bite and her eyes filled with tears. Kai laughed so loudly that the old woman scolded him in Mandarin.

"Liar," said Mei, wiping her eyes, grinning. "You knew it would be hot."

"I didn't know. I hoped," said Kai, and handed her a cold drink from the stall next door.

They moved on, from stall to stall, through the glow of neon signs and the smell of frying oil and sweet, sticky tapioca. Kai bought her oyster omelette, which she loved, and a bowl of stinky tofu, which she hated, and a skewer of grilled squid, which she declared the finest thing she had ever eaten. He took photographs of her with her own camera when she wasn't looking, and she caught him doing it three times.

"Stop that," she said, at the fourth stall.

"Stop what?"

"Taking my photograph. I'm the food writer. You're supposed to be the guide."

"I'm both," said Kai. "It's a very modern job."

They sat on a plastic stool at the edge of the market, with a bowl of braised pork rice between them and a view of the crowds swirling under the lights. The music from a nearby stall was loud and bright, and a child was dancing somewhere in the middle of the throng.

"Can I ask you something?" said Kai.

"Yes."

"Are you here because you want to be, or because your editor wants you to write about it?"

Mei thought for a moment, her chopsticks paused above the rice.

"Because I wanted to get away from London," she said honestly. "From the deadlines and the emails. And because I wanted to find out if I was still capable of being happy somewhere I didn't know anyone."

Kai's expression softened. "And?"

"I think I am," said Mei. "Ask me again tomorrow."

"I'll ask you tonight," said Kai. "Can I walk you back to your hotel, the long way, past the river? I know a bridge where you can see the whole city at once."

"Yes," said Mei, and then, with a grin: "But only if you find my wallet first."

"Deal," said Kai. "Green?"

"Green," said Mei, laughing. "Very green, and very, very spicy."